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THE DISTANT VOICE 


A FACT OR A FANCY l 


By 

MARIE CORELLI 

AUTHOR OF “ THE SORROWS OF SATAN,” “ BARABBAS, 
“ VENDETTA !” ETC., ETC. 




PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1896 






















A 


THE DISTANT VOICE 


A FACT OR A FANCY? 


By 

MARIE CORELLI 


AUTHOR OF u THE SORROWS OF SATAN, ‘ 
“vendetta!” ETC., ETC. 


BARABBAS, 





PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1896 


Copyright, 1895, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company 


Electrotyped and Printed by J B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U S. A. 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


“ A FTER long sleep, to wake up in heaven to the 
1 \ sound of a beautiful voice, singing ! . . 

The sick man muttered these words aloud, and, 
turning on his pillows, opened his eyes to meet 
the cold, grey passionless ones of his physician 
who bent over him, watch in hand. 

“ Delirious, eh ?” said the doctor, observing him 
narrowly. “ This won’t do at all. How’s the 
pulse ?” The patient extended his wrist. “ H’m ! 
Not so bad! You were talking nonsense just 
now, Mr. Denver.” 

“ Was I ?” Denver smiled faintly, and sighed. 
“ I was dreaming, I think ; a strange dream, 
about” — he paused a moment, then went on — 
“ about heaven.” 

The doctor put his big watch back in its pocket, 
and looked about for his hat and gloves. 

“ Ah, indeed !” he murmured abstractedly. 
“ Very pleasant, no doubt ! Dreams are often 
exceedingly agreeable. You must go on with the 
medicine, Mr. Denver; it will alleviate pain, and 
it is all I can do for you at present. If you could 
pick up your strength, we might try an operation ; 
but it’s no use just now.” 

Denver’s sad dark eyes rested on him wistfully. 

“ Stop a moment, doctor,” he said; “I should 
like to ask you a question. I’m not delirious ; 
I’m quite myself — at least as much as I shall ever 

3 


4 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


be. I know mine is a hopeless case ; cancer is 
bound to kill, sooner or later. Still, you’re only 
mortal yourself, and the time must come when 
you will have to go the same way I am going. 
I’m on the verge of the grave, so it’s not worth 
while deceiving me. Now, tell me honestly, do 
you believe in heaven ?” 

The doctor had found his hat and gloves by this 
time, and was ready for departure. 

“Dear me, no!” he answered; “certainly not! 
That is, if you mean a supernatural heaven. The 
only heaven possible to the human being is the 
enjoyment of a certain set of brain sensations 
which elevate him into a particular mood of hap- 
piness ; hence the saying that 4 heaven is not a 
place but a state of mind.’ ” 

“Then,” went on Denver slowly, “you do not 
think there is any sort of conscious or individual 
life after death ?” 

“ My dear sir,” replied the doctor, somewhat tes- 
tily — he was a great man in his profession and had 
a number of distinguished patients waiting for him 
that morning — “ these are questions for the clergy- 
man of the parish, not for me. I really have no 
ability to argue on such abstruse matters. I can 
only say, as a man who has studied science to some 
extent, that I personally am convinced that death 
is the natural and fitting end of the diseased or 
superannuated human being, and that when he 
dies, he is beyond all doubt absolutely dead and 
done for.” 

John Denver still looked at him earnestly. 

“ Thank you !” he said at last, after a pause. 
“ You are a clever man, doctor, and you ought to 
know. I am an ignorant fellow, always was igno- 
rant, I’m afraid. But when I worked for my living 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


5 


as a lad down in the mines, and looked up from 
the darkness of that deep earth, to the round bit 
of blue sky that shone in thick with stars above 
me, I used to believe heaven was there and God in 
the midst of it. It was nonsense, I suppose, but 
I wish I had the old faiths now. I think I should 
be able to bear my trouble better.” 

The doctor was slightly embarrassed and per- 
plexed. It was the old story ; he had no drug 
wherewith to “ minister to a mind diseased.” Pa- 
tients often bored him in this way with trouble- 
some questions. If John Denver had been a poor 
man instead of a rich one, he might not have even 
answered him ; but millionaires are not met with 
every day, and Denver was a millionaire. 

“ Why do you not see your clergyman ?” he 
asked. “ It is possible he might reinstate you in 
your beliefs ” 

Denver’s brows clouded. 

“ My clergyman ?” he echoed, a trifle sorrow- 
fully. “ My clergyman is far too much occupied 
with the comforts of earth to think over deeply 
concerning the joys of heaven. The last time I 
saw him, he urgently begged me to leave some- 
thing to the church in my will. ‘ I am sorry to 
hear your disease is hopeless,’ he said, ‘ but I am 
sure you would wish a part of your wealth to be 
of some benefit to the Almighty.’ As if any man’s 
money could really ‘ benefit’ the Creator of all 
things ! No, doctor ! My clergyman has no sup- 
port to give me in the trial I am passing through. 
I must bear it quite alone. Don’t let me detain you 
any longer. Good-morning, and again thank you !” 

The physician muttered a hasty response, and 
made his exit, glad to escape from what he con- 
sidered the “fads” of a fanciful invalid. 


6 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


Left to himself, John Denver stared wearily into 
the vacancy of the great room in which he lay. 
It was furnished simply, yet 'richly, and through 
the large bay window set half open, he could see 
the verdant stretches of park and meadow land 
of which he was the owner. He thought of the 
years of patient toil he had endured to amass his 
present wealth, of his life out in the “ far West,” 
of the sudden discovery of silver ore which had 
made him one of the richest men in the world, 
and of all the glamour and glitter of slavish so- 
ciety which had attended him ever since his attain- 
ment to fortune. He thought of the pretty woman 
he had married — a fresh, lively girl when he had 
first met her, and one whom he had fondly fancied 
loved him for himself alone ; but who was now no 
more than a frivolous mondaine , for whom nothing 
was sacred but social conventionalism, and whose 
heart had steadily hardened under the influence of 
boundless wealth till she was as soulless as a 
fashion-plate. He thought of his children who 
had never loved him with really disinterested af- 
fection, of his son, who only looked upon him as 
the necessary provider of his yearly allowance, of 
his daughter, who was running the rounds of so- 
ciety in search of some titled noodle for a hus- 
band, almost, if not utterly indifferent to the fact 
that her father was dying of an incurable disease, 
and as memory after memory chased itself through 
his tired brain, a sudden rush of tears blinded 
him, and he groaned aloud, “ O God ! what has 
my life been worth ! What worth has any life if 
death must be the end ?” 

At that moment a slight tap came at his door, 
and before he had time to say “ Come in!” the 
intending visitor abruptly entered. 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


7 


“ I thought I should find you at home, John 
Denver,” he said, in singularly slow, musical tones ; 
“ I met your wife in the garden, and she told me 
the doctor had just left you.” 

Denver nodded a faint assent. He was weary 
and exhausted; and in the presence of this par- 
ticular friend of his, was always strangely disin- 
clined to speak. Truth to tell, Paul Valitsky, 
known to many as a great painter, and suspected 
by some of being a dangerous Russian Nihilist, 
was a rather remarkable-looking man, possessed, 
too, of a certain fascination which attracted some 
people and distinctly intimidated others. Though 
small of stature and somewhat bent, he was not 
old ; his face, pale and rather angular, was beauti- 
fied by a pair of fine eyes, greenish-grey in hue, 
with an occasional changeful light in them like 
that which plays on opals. These eyes were his 
chief feature ; they at once captivated and held all 
who met their fiery iridescent glances, and as he 
turned them now on Denver, a great kindness 
softened them — an expression of infinite tender- 
ness and regard, which was not lost upon the 
invalid, though he lay still and apparently un- 
moved to any responsive feeling by that gentle 
and searching scrutiny. 

“ So the fiat has gone forth, and we must die !” 
said Valitsky presently, in almost caressing ac- 
cents. “ Well, there are worse things in life than 
death.” 

Denver was silent. 

“ You dislike the idea?” resumed his visitor after 
a slight pause. “ The quiet of the tomb is not 
an agreeable prospect? You seem discomposed; 
but you are a brave man — you surely cannot be 
afraid !” 


8 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


“ No, I am not afraid,” replied Denver steadily. 
“ I am only — sorry !” 

“ Sorry ! And why ?” 

“ Well, in the first place I am sorry to have 
made so little good use of my time. All I have 
done has been to amass money, and what is that ! 
— a delusive quest and an unsatisfactory gain, for 
I profit nothing by my life’s work — my gold can- 
not cure sickness or keep back death. In some 
unfortunate way, too,” he paused and sighed, “ I 
have missed love out of all my fortunes, and now, 
here at the last, I am left alone to meet my fate as 
best I can, and my 'best’ is a bad attempt. Yes; 
I am sorry to die; I am sorry to leave the world, 
for it is beautiful ; sorry to lose the sight of the 

sun and the blue sky ” he broke off for a 

moment, then went on, “ But I tell you, Paul, if I 
could believe in another life after this one, as you 
do, and if the dream I had an hour ago were a 
truth, then I should not be sorry; I should be 
glad !” 

“ Ay, ay !” and Valitsky nodded sympatheti- 
cally. “ And what was this dream ?” 

“ I dreamed I was in heaven,” said Denver, his 
troubled face lighting up with an inward rapture. 
“ But not such a heaven as the parsons preach of ; 
it was a world somewhat resembling this one, only 
vaster and more beautiful. I seemed to myself to 
have wakened suddenly out of a deep sleep, and 
as I woke I heard a voice — the loveliest and ten- 
derest voice imaginable! — singing a sweet song; 
and I swear to you, Paul, I thought I knew and 
loved the unseen singer !” 

Valitsky rose from the chair he had occupied 
near the window, and, approaching the bed, laid 
his fine, nervous hand on Denver’s wrist, fixing 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 9 

him at the same time with his strange iridescent 
eyes. 

“ So you have heard a voice from the other 
world, my friend !” he said. “ And yet you doubt ! 
You know what I am — you know that for me, at 
times, the portals of the Unseen are set open. Men 
call me artist, idealist, madman, judging me thus 
becuse I know the touch of higher things than are 
common to ordinary eating, drinking, breeding, 
perishing clay; but let them call me what they 
will, at death my faith will bridge the tomb, where 
their materialism shrinks away in fear and horror. 
That, voice you heard — listen and tell me — was it 
at all like this ?” 

He held up his hand with a warning gesture — 
and, through the silence, a faint, delicious sound 
of song came floating distinctly — clear, yet far off, 
as though it fell from the regions of the upper air. 

“ My God !” cried Denver, starting up in his 
bed. “ It is the same — the very same ! Paul, 
Paul ! What does it mean ?” 

“ It means,” answered Valitsky steadily, “ that 
you are on the verge of the Eternal, my friend; 
and that I, a poor unworthy medium of communi- 
cation, am bidden to assure you of the fact. The 
heaven you dreamed of is a real heaven ; the voice 
you hear is a real voice ; and the One who sings 
awaits your coming with all the love you have 
missed in your life till now. Believe me or not as 
you will, I speak the truth. Death, or what mor- 
tals call death, will bestow upon you such joy as 
is incapable of human comprehension or expres- 
sion, but at the same time it is but fair to you to 
say that you can have your choice ; knowing what 
I have told you, you yet have the privilege given 
to you to decide whether you will die or live on.” 


IO 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


Denver stared amazedly. “ You talk in riddles, 
Paul ! Live on ? I ? My doom is sealed ; I 
know that well enough. You can do nothing, 
spiritualist and idealist though you are, to hinder it.” 

“ If you choose to live, you shall live!” said 
Valitsky firmly “ I will guarantee it, for so I 
have been commanded. Cancer shall not kill nor 
any other evil cut the thread of your existence. 
But, were I you, I would die rather than live.” 

Denver had grown very pale. 

‘‘You — you will guarantee my life if I choose 
to live?” he asked, in low, tremulous tones. 
u Can you guarantee it?” 

“ I can and will. I swear it ! I came here to- 
day on purpose to tell you so. But think well 
before deciding ! — the barriers of the unseen world 
are lifted now, ready for your admission. If by 
your own choice they close again, the Voice you 
heard will sing to you no more.” 

With a wild, searching glance Denver scruti- 
nised his strange friend’s pale countenance. It was 
passionate and earnest — only the eyes sparkled 
with an intense, fiery gleam. Uncertain what to 
believe, and yet strongly impressed by Valitsky’s 
steadfast manner, knowing him, too, for a man who 
was credited, rightly or wrongly, with singularly 
occult powers, he suddenly made up his mind and 
spoke out impetuously. 

“ I will live !” he said. “ The next world may 
be a dream, the sweet voice that stole away my 
heart may be a delusion, but this world is real, a 
tangible fact, a place in which to move and breathe 
and think in. I will stay in it while I can ! If 
you indeed have the force you seem to possess, 
why use it upon me and give me life — this life? I 
choose, not heaven but earth ; I will live on !” 


THE DISTANT VOICE. I I 

Slowly Valitsky withdrew from the bedside, 
and, standing a few paces away, surveyed Den- 
ver with an intense expression of mingled scorn 
and compassion. 

“ Be it so,” he said. “ Live, and try to find joy, 
peace, or love in what life brings you. You have 
chosen badly, my poor friend ! You have rejected 
a glorious reality for a miserable delusion. When 
you are tired of your choice let me know. For 
the present, farewell !” 

The door opened and closed softly — he was gone. 
For hours John Denver lay still with wide-open 
eyes, going over and over every detail of the 
strange conversation he had had with this strange 
man, and wondering whether it was true that he 
was granted a new lease of life, or whether it was 
mere fantastic boasting on Valitsky’s part. Finally 
he slept a sound and dreamless sleep. The next 
day, on awaking, he was free from pain, and during 
the ensuing week he was so far recovered as to be 
able to leave his bed and resume his ordinary oc- 
cupations. The great physician who attended him 
was completely taken aback, the supposed cancer- 
ous ailment appeared after all to have no existence, 
and for the thousandth time an apparently infallible 
doctor was proved wrong. John Denver lived, as 
Valitsky had sworn he should do. He lived to see 
his son in the criminal’s dock for forging a friend’s 
name ; he lived to see his daughter married to a 
vicious “ nobleman,” whose days were passed in 
gambling and nights in drinking; he lived to know 
that his wife had been faithless to him for years, 
and that she had hoped for his death and was furi- 
ously disappointed at his continuance of life; he 
lived to entertain flatterers who fawned upon him 
for his wealth alone, to feed servants who robbed 


12 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


him at every turn, to realise to the full the cruelty, 
hypocrisy, meanness, and selfishness of his fellow- 
creatures, till, at last, after seven tedious summers 
and -winters had passed away, a great weariness 
came over him and a longing for rest. Conscious 
of the failure and futility of his life, he sat all 
alone one evening in his great library, looking 
vaguely out on the misty moonlit lawn, and un- 
bidden tears rose to his eyes as he thought, “ If I 
could only dream again that dream of heaven, and 
wake to hear the sound of that beloved and beau- 
tiful voice singing.” 

On a sudden impulse, he drew pen and paper 
towards him, and wrote to Paul Valitsky, whom he 
had only very rarely and casually seen since that 
strange personage had offered him the choice of 
life or death. 

“ My Friend, — You told me when I was tired 
to let you know. I am tired now. Life offers me 
nothing. I made, as you said, a bad choice. If 
you believe in a heaven still, will you assure me of 
it ? If that voice I once heard is real, if it is the * 
voice of one who is pitiful, and true, and tender, 
may I not hear it again ? Certain mysteries are 
unveiled to you, certain faiths are clear to you ; if 
to your potent secret force I owe the gift of longer 
life, take it back I entreat you, and let me find 
myself where I was seven years ago, on the verge 
of the Eternal, with the golden gates ajar !” 

Several days elapsed before he received any 
reply to this letter, and he was growing restless, 
feverish, and impatient, when at last it came, its 
characteristic brevity quieting him into a strange 
and passive peace. It ran thus : “ Heaven has not 


THE DISTANT VOICE. 


13 


altered its design or changed its place, my friend, 
because blind Earth doubts its beauty. Your seven 
years is a little seven minutes to the dwellers in 
that higher sphere — a mere pause in the song you 
heard ! Be satisfied, on the night you receive 
this letter the song shall be continued and the 
Singer declared.” 

Dreamily John Denver sat at his open window, 
with this missive in his hand ; the glory of a rosy 
sunset bathed all the visible country, and a thrush, 
swaying to and fro on a branch of pine, piped a 
tender little evening carol. He listened to the bird 
with a vague pleasure; he was quite alone, alone 
as he had been for many months since his wife had 
fled from him with her latest lover. He was con- 
scious of a singular sensation, an impression of 
duality , as though he, John Denver, were the mere 
frame or casing for another individual and intelli- 
gent personality, a creature that until now had been 
pent up in clay, suffering and resentful, but that 
at the present moment was ready to break loose 
from imprisonment into a vast and joyous liberty. 

“ And yet,” he murmured, half aloud, “ if there 
is a heaven, what right have I to enter it? I have 
done nothing to deserve it. I have honestly striven 
to do my best according to my poor knowledge ; 
but that is of no account. I have missed love on 
earth, it is true ; but why should I expect to find 
it in another world? Valitsky declares that all 
God’s work is founded on pure equity, and that 
every human soul has its mate either here or else- 
where ; if that were true — if that could be true — 
perhaps by the very law of God which knows no 
changing, I may meet and love the singer of that 
heavenly song !” 

At that very moment a sound, sweet and pene- 


14 the distant voice. 

trating, pierced the silence — the full, delicious ca- 
dence of a melody more dulcet than ever came from 
the throat of any amorous lark or nightingale; 
and John Denver, the weary and world-worn man 
of many cares and many disappointments, stood 
up alert, pale and expectant, peering wistfully yet 
doubtfully into the gathering shadows of his room. 
Earth and earth’s gains had proved delusions — 
would the hope of heaven prove equally vain? 

“ The voice divine !” he whispered rapturously. 
“ The same beloved voice I heard before ! ... it 
sings again ! So sweet a voice could not deceive. 
I will accept it as assurance of the truth of God !” 

With straining sight he still gazed into the 
deepening darkness . . . Was it fancy ? or did 
he see there an angel-figure, and face fairer than 
that of any pictured vision ? — a face luminous as a 
star, and full of tenderest appeal, love, and ecstasy. 
He stretched out his arms blindly . . . wonder- 
ingly . . . with a supernal sense of joy. 

“ It is true !” he said. “ God is just, and heaven 
exists, dispite all narrow, worldly doubtings ! 
What has been missed shall be found; what has 
been lost shall be gained ; and even to the poorest, 
the most sinful, and most ignorant shall consola- 
tion be given. For death is not death — but Life !” 

He staggered a little — his breath failed him — 
and falling back in his chair he closed his eyes. 
The mystic voice sang on, flooding the silence 
with exquisite music ; he smiled, listening. 

“ After long sleep, to wake up in heaven to the 
sound of a beautiful voice singing !” he murmured 
— and then was still. 

And even so John Denver slept the sleep of 
death ; and, if all faiths are not frenzies, even so 
he woke ! 








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